Madness Takes Time
by Hook Prosthesis
Summary: Our beloved Dr. Disraeli has been given a list of murders that need to be committed. Will his nerves permit him to succeed? No pairings and I attempted to stay within the characters' personalities to the best of my abilities. Please review!
1. Chapter 1

It was dark. He must've been asleep. He could hear the faint clacking of shoes on the tile flooring, gradually getting louder. It was a strange sensation, hearing such a sharp sound like that after being asleep for… How long had he been asleep? Surely not long… He'd never had a tendency to sleep longer than a couple of hours, even when he needed it.

The person who was producing the clacking was now opening his door, turning the doorknob noisily. Jizabel already had thought about what to say to the unwelcome guest- if you want to keep your eyes in their sockets, leave.

He was just about to raise his head from his arms and recite the words he had so many times in the past when the person brought forth an oil lamp and set it down right in front of him on his desk. It was bright and sudden, and Jizabel was temporarily stunned. He kept his head down on his desk, enjoying his own hot breath as long as he could before something was asked of him.

"Are you going to sleep all day, or do I have to interfere, as usual?" , came a voice from beside him. He jumped upon hearing it.

"Cassian? What the hell are you doing here?", he asked tiredly, angry for allowing himself to be frightened. He didn't like portraying himself as timid- it was a definite sign of weakness.

"Good to see you too, doc," Cassian retorted shortly, again scaring the groggy doctor.

With a reluctant groan, he sat up, rubbing his temples and at the same time attempting to nurse a headache. He blinked when the lamp's light caught painfully on his amethyst eyes, his pupils contracting frantically to adjust. He arched his back like an awakening cat and remained stretching for a moment, slightly enjoying the feeling of his vertebrae cracking and growling quietly.

The boy watched and laughed. "You're the only person I've met that growls when he stretches. Besides my dog, that is, and that's not even a person."

Jizabel's growl strengthened. "Instead of criticizing the way I stretch, why don't you tell me why you're here?" he replied, his voice icy and smooth. His eyes opened and he redirected his glare to Cassian.

He chuckled, trying to hide the small chill that coursed through his body upon seeing the fiery violet eyes stare into his. "Your fa- er, Alexis, asked me to deliver this note to you." He then offered out a piece of paper he held between his index and middle fingers.

Jizabel eyed it suspiciously for a moment, then cautiously took it as if it was going to bite. He started to unfold it, but paused and looked at Cassian expectantly. "You're still here?"

The hint took a second to register, but then the thirty year old laughed and, embarrassed, backed out of the room, knocking over some test tubes on a table on the way. Jizabel rolled his eyes impatiently and, when the door clicked shut, unfolded the note. Before setting his eyes on it, he tiredly shot out a hand, grasping a pair of small, golden glasses. He put them on and began skimming over the note:

Jizabel:

Below is a confidential list of lives that you need to take care of. You may use whatever technique you wish. I trust that this isn't a problem for Death?

He paused before reading the actual list and sighed. How utterly droll killing people was. It was beginning to be a taxing chore. He returned the paper to its original folded state and slipped it into a pocket on the inside of his lab coat.

After seeing that it was lying flat and neat against his chest (one of those picky doctor things), he stood and leaned against the wall, gazing at the opposite one in contemplation. How would he, as Alexis had so lovingly put it, "take care of" his next victims? He wandered to the other side of the room and began pawing delicately through his various chemicals and poisons, thinking out all the aspects, strengths and weaknesses of each and admiring all of them with a practiced eye. It had to be something quick and inconspicuous, yet painful and slow. That was simply his unique style. After a few more moments of deliberation, he reached forward and selected a small container of cyanide. After all, nothing could beat the classics. He took a syringe from another countertop and stuck the tip in the rubber lid of the cyanide, slowly drawing the clear liquid out with slender fingers. When he had a lethal dose, he proceeded to to store it carefully in his coat and leave the room as quietly and swiftly as a cat.

Jizabel was outside and strolling down the streets of London before anyone even knew he had left his room. If you were walking next to him, you would have thought he was an honest civilian, never a cold-blooded murderer with a syringe of poison concealed in the lab coat under his thin deep brown one. A little ways down the road he retrieved the list and glanced at the address, changing his general direction accordingly and approaching a large house as calmly as if he was taking a walk in the park.

Lucky enough for him, it looked as though the man he was after had had a recent dispute and was sitting on his front porch, head in his hands. Jizabel looked up to the sky and smiled slightly- it was just starting to fade into a most promising twilight. Perfect. Twilight was an excellent cover.

With the silence and agility of a fox, the doctor circled nonchalantly around the man, coming up behind him. Before the poor man knew what hit him, he was already sliding sideways, slouching on the stone steps leading to his home with a needle embedded in the side of his neck. Jizabel bent down, ripped the syringe out, cleaned it off with his coat and went on his way, yawning.

Upon entering Delilah's headquarters, he felt a strange tap on his shoulder. He was immediately put on the defensive as he turned around, a snarl on his face. His snarl faded into a quizzical expression when he found nobody there. He looked around to check one last time, but shrugged and walked into the building when his investigation found nothing. His mind was probably playing tricks on him. After all, killing a man could do that to you.

When he reached his room, he slid the brown overcoat off and hung it on a makeshift hook in his wall. He had to get a new one of those- the one he had now was simply unattractive. After thinking about the wall hook for another moment, he sat down at his pleasantly familiar desk and began fondly examining a dog skull he had found a couple of days ago. It was now bleached and the light from his oil lamp played on the ivory-colored teeth and jawbone. Sighing contentedly, Jizabel decided he had done enough work for one day and laid his head on his desk in his folded arms, closing his eyes for a bit…


	2. Chapter 2

It was dark, and darker than before. He enjoyed the darkness. It was quiet and peaceful… Quiet? Peaceful? It was darkness, there was nothing quiet or peaceful about it. But it WAS quiet… A little too quiet, maybe? As for peaceful, well… It was sort of peaceful. No, we already went over this. It was too quiet, not peaceful at all. So confusing…

Jizabel woke up, a quizzical expression already accompanying his tired appearance. Why was he contradicting himself so much? He usually knew exactly what he thought, and he usually agreed with himself. No, he never knew exactly what he wanted. That's impossible. Well, he managed to accomplish it, didn't he?...

He growled loudly and stood, looking around him. Cassian was missing his daily wake-up-the-tired-doctor routine. The doctor shrugged off the thought of missing him-- he was the most annoying assistant he had ever taken on. But he was fun to be around sometimes… No, he wasn't. Jizabel was tired of looking after the twerp. He wasn't a twerp, though, he was just eager to please…

Jizabel growled even louder and strode to the countertop, reaching into his pocket and getting the list. He obviously had scratched out his last victim's name already. It was a straight, unfaltering line. Or was that a slight curve? No, it was definitely straight. Stop it!! No, I don't think I will…

The voices arguing constantly was certainly taxing, almost screaming in his mind. I wonder if there's any medication I can take for that… Nope. Nothing. Well, there COULD be something SOMEWHERE, right?

Before the voices, HIS voices, could get any further in the debate, he looked at the list in his hand and got the name. Was it pronounced 'Will' or 'Wile'? It was obviously pronounced 'Will'. Much more practical. It could be pronounced 'Wile', who knows? Maybe his parents were creative.

"STOP IT!" Jizabel yelled angrily, his head swimming. Thoughts were bouncing around in his head like squirrels in a cage, so to take his mind off thinking, he prepared a syringe. He made a move for the cyanide, but stopped in mid-reach. Cyanide, right? No, something more painful. That lasted longer. No, cyanide would do the trick. No, something more PAINFUL! That would make him scream in agony…

Jizabel found himself smiling slightly at the last voice's point. Screaming in agony would be fun… He completed his reach for the clear poison, but then reached his other hand out and grabbed a random poison from amongst the group. He kept his smile as he combined the two into one test tube, careful not to spill any. This was not a success, though, for he felt the same tap on the shoulder. He whipped around, causing his hand to slip and drop one of the tubes. He, of course, got frightened, and jumped. He absent-mindedly mopped up the poison with a small section of his lab coat and looked over his shoulder. Nobody was there—again. Or was there someone? No, nobody could sneak into his room and tap on his shoulder without him hearing them… right?

For extra measure, after pouring the remainder of the test tube concoction into a needle and storing it in his coat, he walked around the room, checking in every place that someone could possibly hide in. He searched everywhere, under tables, under chairs, in cabinets…

Ugh, what am I _doing_? I don't have time for this. Or DO I? No, I certainly don't. Alexis gave me this list, and I really need to finish it. Jizabel waited for an argumentative answer from one of the voices in his head, but not even THEY could find anything to debate there, which was sad.

Making sure he had the syringe and nobody was in his room, he cautiously walked outside and locked his door. As he strode outside and down the stone steps of Delilah's headquarters, his hand clenched tightly around the small key, hanging onto it with paranoia. Somehow he was able to remember the address of Mr. Will without looking at the address again, which surprised him. It seemed as though he was pulled directly to it like a moth to a light, almost. But that would never happen. It could. No it couldn't!

"Stop it," he growled irritably under his breath, coming to a stop in front of a small house on the side of the road. He took a look around, trying to find someone that could fit at least the name that was on his list. All he saw was a mangy cat and a woman bustling about the inside of the place, but no men. Maybe HER name was Will… Why would a woman be named Will?

He, despite the constant conflict raging in his mind, decided rather quickly. He would simply come back tomorrow, when the man WAS here. Maybe he should kill the cat and pin it to his door for extra measure….

Jizabel dismissed this thought with a shake of his head. No, that was going too far. Cats were kind little creatures, not nearly as selfish or death-deserving as humans. At least SOME part of him was working correctly. He changed direction, heading back for home. He really was sick of being there, though… It was so boring, almost. No, it was just the same. Pleasantly consistent. The solitary thing in his life that was.

Well , if he wasn't going to the headquarters, where WOULD he go? After wandering around aimlessly for about an hour, he finally gave up and returned to his cage that he called his room. He collapsed on his bed and ran his fingers though his ash-blond hair, sighing. That wasn't a sigh, it was a groan. No, it was most definitely a sigh…

For once, Jizabel ignored the irritating voices and closed his eyes, resting. He couldn't even think about sleep though. There was too many things he could miss, so many things that might happen to him as soon as he shut his eyes…

He sat up drearily and leaned against his headboard, his amethyst eyes shifting tiredly. His eyelids were getting heavy. Why? He had slept so much in the last couple of days. Maybe just a little rest… No, one rest would lead into thousands of seconds wasted. Plus, he didn't want anything to sneak up on him while he was sleeping. But he was so tired…

In the end, he agreed with the latter and laid back down, stretching out like a dead cat. Dead cat? I thought we already had this conversation… No, that was something different…


	3. Chapter 3

Jizabel paced the room anxiously, his ears tuned to every little noise that sounded in the night. He jumped nervously as a cat yowled outside his window. Was it a cat? Yes, what else could have made that awful sound? It might've been an ill coyote. There were no coyotes in London!

"IT WAS A CAT!" he yelled angrily, his hands clutching handfuls of his silky ash blonde hair tightly in frustration. When his voice echoed around the spacious room, he realized with a jolt how utterly alone he was. Bad things happened when people were alone. His thoughts were interrupted by the shrill whinny of a horse, and his heart jumped up into his throat. Or was it even a horse?...

"If you start arguing about what animal that was, so help me…" Jizabel growled irritably, his fists and teeth clenching. He then relaxed and sighed, exasperated. "Great. Now I'm talking to myself." His muscles were just starting to relax when he felt the oh-so-familiar tap on his shoulder. He seized a chair and swung it around, hoping in vain that it would somehow hit whoever was tapping him constantly. He wasn't surprised in the least whenever the chair sailed through empty air, making a slight whistling as it flew right into a wall and crashed into multiple pieces. The doctor sighed and rubbed his temples with a pale hand. What the hell was wrong with him?

As he attempted fruitlessly to diagnose his strange behavior, a thought flitted to his mind: the list. How many people did he have to go? Six. No, it had to be seven. Four, perhaps?

A curled fist flew into the middle of his forehead, and, blinking, Jizabel noticed it was his own fist. When he struck himself again, his other hand shot out and grasped his own attacking appendage round the wrist, tightening painfully. When he felt that he wouldn't harm himself again, he slowly separated his arms, putting them by his sides. He got the list out again and peered at it cautiously, afraid that it might cause another self-inflicted wound.

Once again, he didn't recognize the name. Figures. Alexis couldn't make things EASY and choose people the Jizabel actually knew where they LIVED… Alexis didn't make anything easy. Ever. Or did he? He did choose Jizabel's position, which, the young man had to admit, he agreed pretty damn well with. Death was suiting for someone who hated the human race… Not all of it, of course. He didn't mind… well…. Maybe he DID hate all of it? He shrugged. It also didn't help that Alexis's handwriting looked like he dipped a drunken squirrel's feet in ink and let it run across the page… He waited, but once again, his voices could not disagree. Why couldn't they agree on things that actually mattered?

Jizabel groaned. What was he about to do? He stared blankly at the little slip of paper in silence, trying to get his badly-damaged train of thought back on track. Once again, his mind wandered. He wasn't getting stupider, was he? He gasped quietly as he thought about what the consequences would be if that happened. His whole life would deteriorate! All his years of medical exploration gone to waste with one fell swoop! He shuddered at the thought and moved on in his logic. Maybe he had a brain tumor. He sighed in relief. He could handle one of those. Simply remove a bit of skull, relieve some pressure… All he had to do was access a mirror and he could preform the procedure himself! Dr. Disraeli, first man ever to remove his own brain tumor… The thought vanished when he continued his diagnosis, realizing that he hadn't experienced any head trauma, migraines, blackouts… Damn, there goes another moment of self-worth, which certainly was a rare happening in Jizabel's meager life… But now was not the time for self-pity. He had learned not to succumb to self-piteous behavior early on. Alexis sort of… taught that to him. In a way. Or maybe that was one of the many things that Jizabel taught to himself. Who knows anymore?

He sighed and returned, once again, to his counter, eyeing all of his various poisons and deadly chemicals. The same… the same… the same… ALL THE SAME! He pounded his fist angrily on the counter, disrupting a few loose test tubes. Where the hell did his well-known originality go? Every poison, every medicine, every liquid, all the SAME! He needed something unique to kill his next victim, his next patient. He grinned with satisfaction at his pun. Why are you grinning? That wasn't amusing at all! It had the potential to be, and that's all that matters. Idiocy in the form of a doctor joke is more like it.

"Enough of this futility. We actually have something to do," Jizabel snarled, his amethyst eyes still continuing to search for the perfect poison. His search was interrupted, however, by a sharp knock on his door, at which he jumped considerably. After the recovered from his fright, he tied his disheveled hair in a loose ponytail and turned to the door. "Come in," he said in a shaky voice. He relaxed a little when Cassian entered.

Cassian came in with a smile on his face, but his expression faded as his eyes met Jizabel's. "Doc? You feeling okay?" he inquired, his head tilting slightly to the side. "You look distressed."

As distressed as the doctor felt, he had almost no problem hiding it. "What a ridiculous notion, Cassian. I'm nothing of the sort," he lied, his signature half-grin accompanying his innocent look. His finger twitched as he played with the note behind his back, tracing over the creases.

The man was not fooled, and Jizabel realized this when he frowned. "No, you're stressed. I've been around you long enough to recognize it when I see it."

Jizabel shook his head. "Indeed, you are mistaken…"

"Do you have a cold? I know of a really good herb shop that can cure anything…"

"That's quite enough, Cassian! I'm a doctor! I, of all people, should know if I'm feeling alright!" he snapped curtly, turning back around and busying himself in fingering through a medical almanac he had open on the countertop. He could feel Cassian's glare penetrating the back of his head. "Drop it."

Cassian rolled his eyes and scowled. "You think just because you're a doctor it means that you don't need any help? Well, that's not how it is!" he retorted, surprised at his own temper flare. He was usually not that short with his employer. "Even doctors need doctors."

Jizabel was about to reply when he, once again, felt that infuriating tap on his shoulder. He let out an inhuman roar and turned on his heel, whipping to Cassian. "STOP TAPPING ME ON THE SHOULDER!" he yelled, his eyes burning like liquid fire.

The man gasped and stepped back, holding his hands between him and Jizabel in an effort to protect himself. "Calm down, I didn't do anything!"

"Don't tell me you didn't do anything! I've been feeling that infernal tapping ever since I killed the first person on my list!"

Cassian looked extremely concerned. "Well, I can assure you it wasn't me! I haven't been with you at all!" he retorted defensively, backing away.

Jizabel was about to throw himself into a fit of rage, but then his nerves suddenly calmed like an ocean after a storm. He looked at his feet. He hadn't raised his voice like that in a long time… He was officially starting to worry himself. "I apologize, Cassian," he said after a several seconds of silent thought. "I don't know what came over me. Maybe I'm not as well as I think I am."

Poor Cassian, still frightened, was at a loss for words. "Er… Should I go get Dr. Zenopia for you?" he asked attentively, making for the door handle.

Jizabel shook his head again, his ponytail falling out of the band even more. "No, I don't need that useless jester's help!" He realized his sharp tone and immediately mended his words. "Thank you for your consideration, though…" Oh great. Now he was being too kind! If he continued being that good-natured, people would walk all over him, which was taken literally in Delilah… Or, so he had heard. "Now please, if you would be so kind as to exit. I need some time to… mull some things over."

The other man gave one last concerned look, but complied to his request, secretly appreciating the kind way with which he said it. He turned the doorknob and slowly left, not letting his back face Jizabel for one second.

As the door clicked shut, Jizabel let his shoulders relax. Doing this, he realized that he was incredibly tense. Was there anybody at Delilah that could help with sore muscles? Now that he thought about it, he would be the only one, so he was pretty much up the creek without a paddle in THAT category. Great. Another to add to my list, he thought crossly.

But he was getting off the subject. Yet again. There was still the matter of his upcoming murder hanging over his head like a fog. He sighed and leaned on the counter, propping himself up with an elbow and using his other hand to rub his temple. He was too tired to prepare a syringe, find a liquid to put IN said syringe, and then waste his efforts by just sticking it in some poor sap's neck or wrist anyway. That seemed like too much work—too much valuable time. But syringes were his specialty, and they always have been. It would be out of his natural character to go outside of sadistic, misused medical procedures. He might be questioned more than he already had been. And he wasn't in the mood for it, to say the least. He drummed his fingers on the counter thoughtfully, but then straightened and left the chemicals. In their stead, he picked up a sizable knife from his bed—what it was doing on his bed, he had no clue—and slid it in a pocket in the inside of his lab coat. It fit perfectly, which was a surprise.

He squinted as the exuberant sunlight blasted painfully into his eyes, playing on the various shades of violet and purple in his irises. His arm over his eyes made walking normally down the street without looking like a sailor searching for land a difficult chore, and he lengthened his stride slightly. For once, he didn't have to look at the address at which his patient—hehe, there's that pun again—was located, seeing as he went directly to the front door without encountering any problems.

Before he could think about strategy, his hand reached out and knocked a couple of times on the door, and he gasped. Why the hell did you do that? Well, I thought it might be easier than—

He drew in a quick breath when the door was answered. A short stocky man that made Jizabel feel proud of his height was standing in the doorway. His face screamed "bulldog" more than a bulldog's, and his eyes were sunken. He was wearing a suit that was way too small for him. "Can oi help ya, sah?"

Jizabel cleared his throat and smiled as innocently as possible, looking down at the man as if he were a child. "Yes, is there a Mr. Will that resides here?"

The little man grunted. "Aye, tha's me."

The doctor winced at the man's cockney accent—it was primitive compared to his own smooth British. "Terribly sorry about this, then. I want to remind you that you could have lied about who you were… But then again, that would be dishonest, wouldn't it?" He stepped into the doorway, his gloved hand moving toward the concealed knife.

Before the man could do anything about it, or even compute what the other said, a knife was solidly planted in his chest, cleanly slicing between two of his ribs and penetrating his heart directly through the middle. He fell to the ground, soon lying in a puddle of his own blood.

Jizabel smiled and prodded the corpse, making sure it was completely dead. It was. Or was he just unconscious? Just to be sure, he knelt down and felt Mr. Will's pulse. Completely dead. Good. He stood and shoved the body into the house with his foot, managing to shut the door and walk away from the house without gathering too much attention. He grinned innocently as a couple of kids stopped to stare, giving them a slight wave of his hand. He gasped as he put his hand back in his pocket—he was still wearing his bloodied-up glove.

He looked back to the kids, whose jaws dropped in surprise. The doctor took a quick glance around—no one else seemed to be watching. He stalked over to the kids—they were most likely brother and sister, considering they had the same facial features and seemed to be around the same age. He sunk to his knee a couple of feet away from the boy, a smile stretching across his thin, handsome face.

"Hello there. Can you please tell me what exactly you saw just then?"

The boy looked somewhat frightened, but spoke anyway. "You visited our father, and then he fell down and you shut the door. And… just now, you had…blood, on your glove." He seemed to have difficulty answering.

Jizabel simply smiled. "You know what this means, right?"

The boy assumed an indignant frown. "Yeah! I'm gonna tell the police on you!" His sister nodded to back him up, but remained watchful and silent.

The doctor laughed maliciously. "I'm afraid that's simply not what the answer I was looking for." He produced the knife from his coat and held it to the boy's throat. He began to make a noise, and Jizabel pressed the sharpened blade a tiny bit further.

And then the voices came. What the hell are you doing? This is a CHILD, for heaven's sake! Surely you can show some mercy!... No, mercy is out of the question. These brats have seen too much, and the last thing I want is more attention from the authorities…. He pressed the knife further, a thin line of blood appearing at the edge of the blade. His sister gasped and stepped closer, looking about ready to leap on the doctor. Humans are bad, but to punish children for their impurities was just satanic!...

"I know that, but I don't want them to snitch…" he muttered to himself. Both of the children's expressions were quizzical.

They won't! Unless, of course, you press the knife further in… No! That will just make them panic, and snitches are fed by panic…. This was actually a good point. He lessened the intensity of his threat, which was very unlike him, taking the blade away from the boy's throat. He suddenly didn't have any drive—he didn't wish to kill any longer.

His temper flared then, and he once again held the knife to his throat. Tears were beginning to stream from the children's eyes. Great. He just made a perfectly innocent child cry. But he didn't care! He was Dr. Jizabel Disraeli, the Death card in the most ruthless organization in England. But they DID look extremely piteous…

He shook his head. He was Death. Cain had even called him the Devil himself on numerous occasions… He stopped thinking immediately. Cain. That despicable, infuriating, agonizing nuisance! Just thinking about his half-brother sent him into a fit of rage. He tried to make the final slash, the one strike that would end the boy's life, but, much to his surprise, he couldn't. Once again, his hand lowered, this time descending all the way to the ground. He stored the knife away in his coat and stood, his expression soft. The boy's hand shot to his neck and his sister locked him in a protective embrace.

Jizabel couldn't tell if he was ashamed of holding a knife to a child's throat or of hesitating to do what he was good at the most. The real him would have slit both of their throats without thinking twice, proof that he wasn't being himself at all. Maybe his old self was the superficial one and this side of him had been hidden a long time ago…

He exited his deep thought and looked down at the frightened children, feeling somewhat regretful that he treated them the way he did. He hated feeling regretful.

"I apologize…" he said after several seconds, hoping that id he apologized they would be less obligated to attract attention. And then his wonderful old personality came back—at least a little. "If you can't refrain from alerting someone, at least have the decency to wait until I've turned the corner. I did let you keep your life, remember." With that being his final word, he turned from the children and started to stride back down the street the way he came. He focused his hearing to what the siblings did while his back was turned, and, surely enough, they were shouting at the top of their lungs for help. He cursed inwardly and began running, quickly turning the corner.

Once he was safely inside the headquarters, he locked the door behind him, sighing angrily. He knew the little brats were going to say something, but in their defense, they were young. He had to give them a little leeway, right? He probably would've done the same thing… Of course, he wouldn't have even encountered such a predicament when he was young. He was so…carefree when he was young. Like he didn't have a concern in the world…

"Ugh, I'm so sick of it…" he groaned under his breath, accidentally saying it out loud.

"Sick of what?" came a strong voice from what sounded like the lounge.

Jizabel jumped and whipped around, only to face a concerned Cassian and—alarmingly—an impassive Alexis. He took a deep breath and exhaled in tensed relief. He stood straight and cleared his face of any and all expression.

"Nothing. Nothing at all," he replied somewhat shakily, not wanting to set a bad impression.

Alexis chuckled coldly. "Jizabel, you are such a bad liar. You must've gotten that from your mother."

His father's smile was infuriating, but Jizabel kept a straight face all the same. "Must have, considering you're a snake when it comes to bending the truth," he retorted, mostly to himself. He gasped quietly when he realized what he had said—he was probably going to get in trouble for it later on.

Alexis's smile disappeared. "Indeed," he said, his voice filled with malice. "I digress. Cassian brought it to my attention that you haven't been acting yourself as of late. Why do you think that is?"

Note to self, Jizabel thought crossly, scold Cassian later. His glare shifted to the shorter man. "What exactly did he tell you?" he hissed, sending a negative message to Cassian.

"Well, he mentioned that you've been jumpy, tense, paranoid… It's amusing. It's almost like my little Death card is becoming schizophrenic."

Jizabel was at a loss of what to say. Was he really acting that…strange? "I hadn't realized. I can't possibly imagine what it is."

"I consulted Zenopia yesterday, and he suggested it was sleep deprivation," Cassian said, piping up for the first time. Jizabel's glare hardened. How many other people did the little rat tell?

Alexis nodded. "That could be it. So, I suppose the conclusion we've come to is that you need to stop experimenting at untimely hours and actually get rest. Do you agree?"

Jizabel nodded, not appreciating Alexis treating him like an irresponsible child in front of his assistant. "I agree. Of course, I don't have much of a choice, now do I?" he muttered, once again more to himself than anybody. He winced. He really needed to stop being so disrespectful, or he would have to pay extensively.

To his relief, however, Alexis smiled—at least, that's what it looked like, anyway. It was hard to tell when his smiles were analogous to that of a growling dog. "You must not be yourself. The old Jizabel would never be so short-tempered with me." He then looked down at Cassian. "You are dismissed." Cassian scurried off, apparently not wanting to stick around to see what Jizabel's mood was after figuring out that he had told more than one person about his unusual temperament.

Alexis looked back to Jizabel, a stern expression on his face. "I hope to get more respect from here on out. Schizophrenic or not." He gave one last glare and turned, walking out of the room and leaving Jizabel alone to cope with his thoughts. Part of him was furious with his father for humbling him in such a manner, part of him was furious with Cassian for telling two people about his behavior, and part of him was furious with himself for acting that way in general. Schizophrenic, eh? Sounded somewhat accurate. But then again, wasn't schizophrenic the same as being crazy? THAT didn't sound accurate, or appealing, for that matter. Abandoning these thoughts for the day, he silently made for his room and locked himself in, stretching out on his bed. After all, he must get rest… Alexis told him to.


	4. Chapter 4

(Pre read? The songs Falling Apart by Zebrahead and Coming Undone by Korn go with this semi-well, just in case you want some fitting music XD) Anyway, this fic has been shorter than I thought it would be, but I really wanted to write this chapter, so I skipped over the rest of the list. XD Hope you guys don't mind, thanks for sticking with this fic, and enjoy the last installment of Madness Takes Time!

Jizabel sat slumped in an armchair, his gaze flitting assiduously between the floor and the clock softly ticking on the wall. His slender, pale fingers drummed lightly on the arm of the chair. The fingers of his right hand. Left. No, right's right. Well of course it is, or it would be called left. But then what would left be called? Right? But it's not right, it's left. There can't be two rights, there has to be a right and a left… Unless you switched the directions completely, then it would have to be left is left and right is right. But then, where's that leave north, south, east and west? Would north be south and south be north, and would that make east be west and west be east? That's the same thing…

"GRAAAH!!!" the doctor cried with frustration, grabbing handfuls of his gossamer silvery hair with both hands and standing quickly from his seat. His cry of anguish was stopped short when his foot accidentally slipped into the leg of the chair, scooting it noisily backwards and causing him to jump with surprise at the sudden sound. This set off a perfect domino effect… He got furious at his own timid stupidity, and he took this fury out by swinging an arm out in a wide circle, smashing into several glass containers and making them crash onto the floor. He put his head in his hands and staggered backwards, collapsing limply back into the chair that was now misplaced.

Logic. Logic was what he was missing, That was the key element! His brain had shut off—he couldn't do anything right, and the worst part was that he didn't have the slightest clue why… He had considered taking medicine several times, but he was overly cautious… He didn't want to accidentally give himself an overdose. So, instead of taking action, he just sat dejectedly, sighing into his hands…

The list. That's what he could do to occupy his time. Murder was a great way to relieve stress, as he had found out a long time ago… He chuckled at the very thought of it. He reached into his pocket and fumbled around for the slip of paper, grabbing it roughly and ripping it out of his coat. He unfolded it, carelessly jerking the folds and looking at the next, the last, name…

A grim smile stretched onto his face, his amethyst eyes acquiring an even madder glint. He was in the middle of a long, drawn-out chuckle when a tentative knock sounded on his door… Jizabel didn't stop laughing or stop grinning as he stood shakily to answer it, opening the door and letting it swing. In the doorway stood none other than Cassian, looking up at him confusedly and innocently. "Uh, hello, doc, I was just wondering what the…crashes…were…" His voice faded as he surveyed the room's condition, his eyes alighting upon the layer of shattered glass littering the floor. "Doc, are you okay? You don't look so hot…"

Jizabel barely let Cassian finish his sentence before blurting out. "Cassian, magnificent news! Look! Look who's on my list!" He shoved the piece of paper in his face, looking extremely excited. He then let the note drift to the floor as he whipped around, striding to his medical supplies and fondly admiring the gleam of the room's light flashing off a scalpel.

Cassian bent and picked up the paper, looking at it curiously. "What the hell is this? And why is the last name—"

This time, he didn't even get to finish, for Jizabel's finger was on his lips before he could say anything else. "Just shush, okay? This is the last name. This is the last life," he said, chuckling madly, looking an alarming cross between insane and deadly. "Just. One. More." With that being his final word, he seized a scalpel and headed out the door, walking with his back slightly hunched like a hyena.

As he walked down the hall, he held his arm out, scraping the scalpel edge on the wall and filling the air with an irritating screech like nails on a chalkboard. He threw open the front doors so fiercely that his arms stung, and he followed it up with descending the front stairs in the same manner, skipping every other two steps. His insane grin never wavered as he strode down the streets of a sleeping London, walking down the middle of the street and keeping his stare directed in front of him.

He didn't need the address. He already memorized the location, the number of the house, hell, he even memorized how many steps led to the front door. After all, it was the house of his favorite little brother…

Cain and Riff were in the first's office, both silent. Cain sat at his desk, sipping at a cup of steaming tea and writing a letter to a girl he had met. Riff stood at the door, keeping everything under a watchful, vigilant gaze, his face stoic. He was almost falling asleep, for the rain outside was making a lovely sound as it gently drummed on the roof… They both jumped with fright as thunder suddenly clapped, however…then neither of them were tired.

Cain, who was angry at the thunder for making him mess up his neat cursive, recognized with a sigh that there was a knocking coming from the front door. He looked to Riff, who silently nodded and took his leave to answer the door. Cain smiled and reached for another piece of paper—He could always count on Riff to be—

"AAAAAAGGH!!"

His pen went scrawling across the paper again as an inhuman shriek emanated from outside the room, causing his heart to painfully skip a beat. "What the hell??" he grumbled, looking towards the doorway. Maybe he should go to investigate…

He remained motionless as sounds of a struggle followed the scream, his eyes widening. What the hell was happening? "Riff?" he called cautiously, somewhat scared of what would happen next. No one answered. Instead, there came a pained yell and a splatter, like someone had just fallen in a puddle. Cain's heart was racing as he slowly stood, creeping to the door…

As he peered out of his doorway into the darkness of the main hallway, he could see a flash of silver, illuminated by the moon shining through the window. But something else was also luminescent… A rich scarlet color one could only assume was blood. And, judging by the amount that was lit up, there was a hell of a lot of it.

"Where's… the damn… LIGHTS?" yelled a rough voice suddenly. The voice was not only rough but incredibly pained, like it's body had just broken a limb and was now dragging itself around.

Cain nervously edged out of his office and switched on an oil lamp nearby. The next events happened in very quick succession—the light blared into the main hall, Cain saw what was in the blood, and he bent immediately and threw up everything he had eaten in the last two days. In the pool of blood laid the body of poor Riff, his eyes clouded and his chest spurting scarlet. Kneeled next to him was Jizabel, his breathing labored as he clutched one side of his face. He looked up while Cain was still vomiting, a smile drawing itself across his narrow face. "Ah, there they are!" he said in a happy voice, struggling to his feet and staggering. "I knew there were lights around here somewhere… Wish you could've turned them on sooner, though." He frowned, stumbling closer to Cain. "I didn't get to see the life leave his eyes!"

Cain weakly looked up and inhaled sharply. Not only was the doctor in his home, but his arm and coat front was soaked with blood, and even more of the liquid was dripping viscously down one side of his face, running down his arm and matting his hair together.

"W-what are you doing here?! What did you do to Riff?!"

Jizabel chuckled in a low, gravelly voice. "Why, I killed him, dear brother. He was the last on my list. Stuck this knife," he paused to throw a blood-stained scalpel at Cain's feet, "right through that oh-so-faithful heart of his. But don't think that it wasn't fair…" He knelt down to look at Cain directly, lowering his hand and revealing a gaping hole where his eye used to be. "Don't you just love the irony, Cain?"

Poor Cain was in a state of speechless shock…it was all so sudden. Riff was dead, the doctor killed him, and now Disraeli was actually in front of him, missing an eye… But he didn't have much time to think, seeing as the doctor was picking up his scalpel again.

Jizabel looked bored, standing up and looking down at his bewildered brother. "Nothing to say? No, 'Congratulations, brother, you just accomplished what you've been trying to for years!' or, 'Wow, Jizabel, you just killed my seemingly-immortal butler!'?" He shrugged, smiling slyly. "Oh well. No last words? Fine with me." With no warning, Jizabel swung the knife downwards, slashing Cain deeply on the arm

The latter cried out in agony and jolted to his feet, snapped out of his trance with intense and sudden pain. He dodged just as Jizabel attacked again, wheeling around and dashing up the stairs to a room where he knew there was a loaded gun…

Not that there was any real rush. The doctor wasn't running, trotting, or even jogging—he was simply sauntering, letting his eye socket drip blood all over him and the floor below. He ascended the stairs after Cain calmly, leaning heavily on the banister with an outstretched arm for balance, laughing madly the entire way. Cain bolted into a dark room, his hair sticking to his forehead from his nervous sweat and his eyes wide with fear…he had never seen his brother this insane, not even in his nightmares. He blindly stumbled about in the darkness of the room, desperately searching for something, _anything_, that could possibly be used as a weapon.

Finally, after several drawn out seconds, the doctor had reached the top of the stairs, now creeping down the hall. "Come out, come out, wherever you are, Cain! I have a job to finish, and I can't do it without you!" He laughed again, sending a chill running up Cain's spine as it echoed throughout the hall.

Cain heard the heavy footfalls of his brother coming closer and closer, and he hurriedly quickened his pace. He was about to give up and trust his fists alone when his hand landed on something cold and metal, his finger instinctively intertwining itself with the trigger…

Jizabel, who was now humming to himself, lurched to the opening of the room, shifting his weight against the frame of the door, chuckling weakly as if someone just made a joke. "So Cain, ya in here? We really need to have a little talk, you little brat." As he said this, a little part of his old personality fluttered back. Great, he thought. NOW it comes back.

"Sorry, I don't have little talks with monsters," Cain snapped, on the verge of tears after a horribly vivid mental image of Riff flickered into his head. He was filled with a new kind of rage as he loaded the gun, trying not to make too many noises.

"You're one to talk about monsters, aren't you? At least I wasn't born one," Jizabel growled, his grin fading considerably as he staggered further into the room.

"I was, and I still got more attention than you did. How did you manage that, doc?" Cain replied curtly, buying time while he finished loading the pistol clutched tightly in his hand.

The doctor stopped talking for a moment, not walking either. "…Are you really going to shoot me, brother?" he said, his voice actually genuine.

Cain paused also, done loading and looking through the darkness at what he thought was Jizabel's form. "Well, considering all pros and cons, I decided that your life was a perfect match for Riff's." He waited for an insane outburst of anger or some sarcastic comment to come flying at him, but when all he heard was a soft, sane laughing, he tilted his head.

"What if I said that I agreed, Earl? Do you know how long I've been waiting for death to finally catch up with me?" he laughed weakly, his tone changing from mad to desperate, sad, even. "I've cheated it too many times for one person. Time to pull the trigger."

Cain had to stop and think for a moment. It sounded like Jizabel was actually asking for him to shoot, point blank, just like that. He waited for more to be said, simply standing and pointing the gun without a word.

"What, are you deaf? You never were a very good listener… That's why you have so many scars to prove it, am I right?"

Cain growled as his finger tightened around the trigger, but even though he had all the intentions in the world to shoot, he still couldn't bring himself to do it.

The doctor was getting desperate now. "Cain, listen. I deserve death. I've intentionally made your life a living hell, I've killed your best friend! Don't let a man like me live…please." His voice was now slightly choked as he staggered forward more, holding his hand over his eye again.

Cain licked his lips in preparation—the doctor actually sounded serious. "…You're sure?"

Jizabel weakly chuckled, softer than before. "Madmen aren't sure of anything."

The younger man tried to laugh, but it didn't come, so he counted down from three…two…one…

BANG!

Jizabel's amethyst eyes glazed over as his hands covered the clean hole going right through his chest, making blood spurt the same way Riff's did. A metallic clang sounded as the scalpel in his hand dropped to the floor, and soon after, so did the doctor, dropping to his knees. He could feel his body getting cold, his heart slowing and slowing…and yet, there was still a smile on his face, like everything was finally right. "Thank you…brother…" With those being his final words, Jizabel fell forward and breathed his last, dying with a grin on his face.

Cain dropped the gun and knelt by his brother's side, gently closing his eyes. "Farewell, brother." He stood and slowly walked out of the room, closing the door behind him on his way out.

It was dark, and it was going to be for the rest of eternity.


End file.
